


take me home

by QueenOfTheWesternSky



Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Clubbing, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Multi, Non-Graphic Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-01-28
Packaged: 2018-03-09 11:11:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3247508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenOfTheWesternSky/pseuds/QueenOfTheWesternSky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And maybe it gets a little out of control from there. But either it’s too dark for anyone to see what’s happening, or they just don’t care. Regardless, Thomas is well beyond caring—as far as he’s concerned, he’s on cloud-freaking-nine. He’s nestled between an amazingly hot guy grinding against his ass, and an adorably charming one who’s leaving a trail of hickeys up and down Thomas’s neck."</p><p>Or</p><p>In which Newt and Minho seduce unsuspecting, naive looking rave goers, and maybe get a little more than they bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	take me home

As per usual, Minho didn’t want to come out, and Newt was getting tired of watching re-runs of F.R.I.E.N.D.S on the couch while Minho tossed popcorn at his hair—but just like _every other_ time they’d gone to one of these raves, Newt was pretty damn sure that Minho wouldn’t hate it as much as he said he did. Mostly he thought his…whatever Minho was just liked to complain about anything and everything.

“Should’ve just stayed home.” He whined as Newt handed him his _third_ drink in the last half hour.

“And done what exactly?” The blonde boy inquired, quirking an eyebrow at the other in question—hell, in some kind of challenge.

“I’m sure we could’ve found _something_ to do.” Was the half _purred_ response he got, which only succeeded in eliciting a smirk from Newt—ever predictable Minho, who downed his _entire_ bourbon and coke in one gulp, like he was _aiming_ to black out as soon as possible.

So Newt does the only thing he can think of to distract;

“Dance with me.” And when Minho inevitably shakes his head, screwing up his face like he can’t think of anything worse, Newt loops his fingers through the belt loops in his too tight jeans, tugging the boy forward until they’re chest to chest, his head tilted to the side, amused and playful and _persistent._ “Minho, dance with me.”

This time he’s met with a resigned _groan_ that Newt can feel vibrate through his chest even more intensely than the music and he _knows_ that he’s won—he always does. Whether or not Minho likes raves or drinking or dancing is irrelevant (Even if there’s a pretty good chance he likes all three and is just being a stubborn jerk), because he likes _Newt_ enough to put up with all three if necessary. And Newt has decided that _yes,_ all three are necessary if his best friend/roommate/sometimes boyfriend wants to get laid tonight—which _of course_ he does.

All’s fair in love and war, right?

And regardless of what the moron says, Minho is a _great_ dancer. Mostly because he never seems to think about it so much as just allow himself to move with the beat of the music and when he really gets into it, it’s positively _enthralling._ Not to say Newt wasn’t already fairly enthralled—why else would he put up with so much shit from the jerk? And it’s moments like this when Newt is _very_ content with his height—still about an inch or two shorter than his sometimes boyfriend, but at the _perfect_ height for one of his favourite past times.

If and when Minho complains about the marks, he’ll simply retort that if he _didn’t_ want marks all over, he shouldn’t always be bearing his neck and collarbone at _perfect_ biting height. And he’s still got his fingers looped through the other’s belt loops, no longer moving his body in time with the music, but moving it in time with Minho’s—he has better rhythm anyway—and one of the other boys hands has snaked around Newt’s stick thin waist, grabbing at his jean covered ass while the other is working its way under Newt’s beanie, tangling itself in the absolute _mess_ of hair contained within, hips rocking _perfectly_ together and—

“—still wish we’d stayed home?” Is what he whispers against the already bruising flesh of his lovers throat.

“Shut it.” He replies, his voice uneven and hoarse, only serving to make Newt _smirk._ He might like to play at being the one in charge, but it was moments like these that they both knew who _really was._

So very wrapped up in one another, they almost miss _him_ walking in—and good god, are they glad they don’t. Minho spots him first, Newt being otherwise preoccupied of course, and goes entirely still for a moment. Newt is almost _alarmed_ by the sudden change, looking up at the other and following his line of sight and— _oh._

Neither of them is entirely sure what it is about him that’s so fascinating, but there he is. Tall, broader than Newt, but thinner than Minho, with short brown hair sticking up at _ridiculous_ angles like he’d just run his fingers though it, with Bambi eyes and a confused demeanour to match—like he has no idea what he’s doing there.

They’re more than willing to help him out with that.

 

Its times like these Thomas wishes he wasn’t quite so stubborn. But he’d been pretty goddamn mad when Teresa had totally bailed on him to hang out with her girlfriend, even though coming to this stupid rave had been entirely _her_ idea. But he’d been so stubborn than he’d gone to the damn thing anyway, even though he’d never been to a club or a rave in his entire _life,_ and stuck out like a sore thumb.

Actually, he was considering leaving when he was pulled towards the throes of people dancing by a thin blonde boy, whose eyes seemed to be _glowing_ in the darkness of the room. There was a glint in them that stopped him from jerking his arm away, or even saying a word, instead allowing himself to be pulled into the crowd before the boy finally turned to him, lacing his arms around Thomas’s neck and it became apparent _very_ quickly that this boy had better rhythm than Thomas could ever hope for.

 Maybe it wasn’t so bad that Teresa had bailed on him.

It was a split second after Thomas had worked up the nerve to sling an arm around the mystery boy’s waist and pull him just a touch closer that he felt someone behind him; _really_ close behind him. He sees the blonde boy looking up over his shoulder with a grin—and there’s a moment of panic in which Thomas is pretty damn sure he’s in the middle of something he shouldn’t be in the middle of.

Surprisingly, and much to his relief, that isn’t the case at all.

Thomas looks over his shoulder just as a rather well muscled arm wraps around his middle—an exceptionally hot Asian boy with god-like arms is smirking at him, his eyes seemingly darting between Thomas himself and the other boy, who seems equally amused. But then the blonde boy is ducking his head to the small expanse of skin left bare at the neck of Thomas’s t-shirt, a shiver going up his spine as the other’s lips are pressed to the hollow of his throat.

And maybe it gets a little out of control from there. But either it’s too dark for anyone to see what’s happening, or they just don’t care. Regardless, Thomas is _well_ beyond caring—as far as he’s concerned, he’s on cloud-freaking-nine. He’s nestled between an amazingly hot guy grinding against his ass, and an adorably charming one who’s leaving a trail of hickeys up and down Thomas’s neck.

“Who--?” Thomas really doesn’t know why he decides to question a good thing, but the moment he does, he can hear—or rather, _feel_ —the thin boy laugh in a way that is seriously too adorable for what it is they’re doing against Thomas’s collarbone, while he can feel a smirk twitching at the other’s lips, pressed lightly against his jaw.

“S’ppose we should’ve introduced ourselves, huh?” The blonde one says, pulling back enough for the almost _devilish_ grin on his face to be visible. He leans around, pressing his lips to the shell of Thomas’s ear. “The name’s Newt.” Then he tilts his head enough to steal a quick kiss from the other boy over Thomas’s shoulder. “And this is Minho.”

“Thomas.” He manages, thankful he didn’t stumble over his own damn name ( Which he was pretty convinced he just might do ).

“ _Thomas.”_ The— _Newt_ repeats, like he’s testing the name on his tongue. It’s then that, for the first time that night, either of them actually _kisses_ Thomas. He feels Newt’s arms move from around his neck, one going beyond him, presumably to Minho, while the other moves to tilt Thomas’s chin just so, and presses their mouths together, softer than expected, Newt’s teeth only lightly nipping at Thomas’s bottom lip and the moment they separate, the other boy’s eyes once again wander to Minho.

Minho’s hand slips from its place around Thomas’s waist, easily slipping between him and Newt, a light pressure against the bulge in his jeans and _oh god._ He’s glad the music is loud enough to almost totally drown out the noise that escapes his mouth. Minho’s mouth is against his ear again, and this time he speaks in a low whisper only just decipherable over the loud _thrum_ of the music;

_“So whataya say we get out of here?”_

Thomas gulps, his eyes darting between the two boys and he’s so sure this has to be some crazy dream—he probably arrived at the club, drank way too much ( he was a notorious lightweight, and Teresa had made it plain and simple that he was never going to live down the events of the first night he ever drank ), and then promptly passed out in the corner. A bouncer has probably dug through his wallet for a number to call and he’s given his best friend yet another story to bring up at parties about what a lightweight her knuckle head best mate is.

“The three of us?”

The question is apparently _incredibly_ funny, because Newt laughs again and there’s even a low chuckle from Minho, who then confirms; “The three of us.”

Words fail him, so he just nods.

 

It’s not the first time Newt and Minho have woken up with someone else in their bed—in fact, it might even be bordering on a habit at this point. Neither of them tend to mind much, since in the end, their _guest_ tends to leave and the two of them fall back into their fluid routine of not quite simply best friends, slightly more than roommates, and perhaps on occasion; _dating._

Either way, Newt is fairly content when he wakes up the following morning, curled up against Thomas’s side, with his hand intertwined with Minho’s, resting on the small of the newcomers back. He’s a bit sore, a bit groggy, but he’s _content._ Stroking his fingers over Minho’s knuckles and resting his head in the crook of Thomas’s neck.

But the sun eventually begins to rise, so he tilts his head up enough to press a kiss to Thomas’s temple, then leans forward to press his lips to Minho’s knuckles, which as always, causes the boy to crinkle his nose—he insisted it tickled, and maybe that was kind of why Newt kept doing it. He slips out of bed mostly unnoticed, pulling on some tracksuit pants that are probably Minho’s, judging by the way they seem to be hanging off his hips, and wanders out to the kitchen.

He sets to work on coffee—or rather, the monstrous overly caffeinated beverage Minho insists is still coffee and his morning cup of tea—and pancakes, because he knows that at the least, Minho will be hungover, and at worst, the both of them will be. As expected, Minho is the next to awaken ( for someone who outwardly seems so lazy, Newt doesn’t think Minho even knows the meaning of the phrase ‘sleep in’ ), he stumbles out into the kitchen, grumbling about how obnoxiously bright the lights in their hallway are. But his expression softens as Newt holds out the cup of ‘coffee’ to him, enough so that Newt earns himself a peck on the cheek as his not-boyfriend slumps into a chair.

There’s a solid ten or fifteen minutes before Thomas’s head pokes out of their bedroom door and Newt beams at him down the hallway.

“Mornin’!”

Thomas takes the bait and wearily walks into the kitchen, approaching the seat at the counter beside Minho like he thinks one ( or both ) of them might _bite_ him—which admittedly, both had done throughout the course of the night, but that was _entirely_ different.

“How d’you like your coffee?” Newt inquires, continuing to flip pancakes.

“Um, milk, two sugars.”

“Thought as much.” A cup of ready made coffee—complete with milk and sugar—is pushed towards him with a smile, and all of this before the pancakes are even ready.

 

Thomas really has no idea what’s going on. But he managed to slip away for a shower while he tries to clear his head over the fact that he had a perfectly domestic breakfast with the two heavily tattooed punks he met and had a threesome with the previous night. Or maybe that was standard protocol for this sort of thing—Thomas clearly isn’t the person to ask about such things.

When he steps out of the shower, once again wearing the skinny jeans and white t-shirt he’d worn to the club last night, the two boys are still sitting in the kitchen, chatting quietly while Minho drinks what has to be his fourth cup of coffee. Both turn to look up at him when he re-enters the room, and Thomas _really_ is pretty goddamn awkward.

“So, um…” He mumbles, wondering how exactly he says _thanks for the best night of my life and I’ll be going now._

“Minho and I were wonderin’ if you wanted t’ have dinner with us.” Newt chirps quite happily, running a hand through his hair and if Thomas didn’t know better, he’d say the boy was almost _sheepish_ about asking.

Naturally, Thomas is quite bamboozled.

“—Wait, you want me to stick around?”

Minho looks like he’s about to start laughing—or he would, were he not slightly hungover. “Is that a yes then?”

Once again, Thomas finds that words are failing him entirely, and resorts to simply _nodding._

 

**Author's Note:**

> When I started writing this some months ago, there was a point to it, I'm sure. Now there's just this and I hope you enjoy your Thominewt.


End file.
